


Ennui

by DaisyFairy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Mood, Caring John, Gen, Mycroft is a good brother, Sad Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6954412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/pseuds/DaisyFairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a quick little fic about how sometimes the right words, actions or *something* at just the right time can make all the difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts).



> Thank you notjustmom x

Sherlock could feel it beginning. The dark mood. The case he had hoped would keep him busy for days had actually been solved in under an hour and the disappointment tasted bitter. Donovan had insulted him again, called him "Freak", not that he really cared what she thought, not when his mood was high, but with the disappointment so fresh it tugged at something inside. 

Then it had started to rain as he walked out of the park to the road to get a taxi. A downpour so hard and sudden that small rivers ran down the footpaths and puddles appeared within minutes. Then when he reached the road every taxi was full of people escaping the deluge, so by the time he climbed into a black cab he was soaked and shivering.

The world seemed bleak, he was sinking into ennui, he could think of nothing that interested him, just going home and sulking. The experiment he had left on the table that morning seemed inconsequential, and, he thought darkly, there is no point checking his email for cases. It is dull, everything dull and boring and set against him.

Reaching Baker Street he paid the fare and climbed out, going to the door on automatic pilot. The mood was getting darker, he wished he knew how to pull himself out, it was not yet irretrievable, but once he got in too far it could be days before he emerged. He wouldn't call it depression, he could still function, this.. thing didn't rule his life. With effort he could still work like this, carry on with the things that needed doing, well, mostly, it would slow him, cause him to expect the worst and prevaricate over whether any particular action was worth the effort. But. He would feel an emptiness inside, a "why bother?" feeling, a "no one cares about me" feeling, and he would snap and snarl at the world and everyone in it.

In a few days it would pass, he knew that, either the feeling would lift on its own, or something would happen to drag him out. Once he had fully sunk into the mood it would have to be something amazing though, a four murders in a locked room with no obvious cause of death and alibis for all suspects kind of event.

Climbing the stairs slowly, for what would be the point of hurrying, he reaches the flat and opens the door, goes in and slumps into his chair, dripping on the floor.

\---

John sees Sherlock slink in, looking thoroughly miserable. He grimaces to himself, he can see the beginnings of the sulk, and knows the blackness that could descend upon their home.

"Bad day?" He asks.

Sherlock looks up at him with an expression that tells it all, no words are needed, it says "The world is hateful, there is no point to anything, even this question...but... maybe I could be persuaded."

John tries for nonchalance "I didn't tell you about your brother kidnapping me again last week did I?"

Sherlock irritably snaps "It was obvious John, you were taken to an old warehouse."

"Yes, I was, and he asked about the case we were working on. I told him in no uncertain terms it was none of his business."

Sherlock's attention was slightly piqued. "He just accepted that?"

Here is the part that John has been holding back for an occasion just like this "I think he was a bit embarrassed and wanted me to leave at that point." Sherlock leans forward slightly in his chair. John continues "I don't think his diet is working." 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, the "obviously" being unspoken.

John tries to hold a giggle in as he finishes his story "He bent over to pick the file up off his desk, and his trousers split right up the back seam. He was.. mortified and asked.. me to.. leave." By the time he had finished he was barely able to get the words out he was laughing so hard.

Sherlock felt a smile tug his lips, the thought of his pompous brother being brought down a peg or two was delicious. A chuckle passed his lips and he could feel the darkness inside ease a little. The small trickle of endorphins released was beginning to tip the balance, and watching John doubled over because he was laughing so hard at the memory of Mycroft's expression set up some sort of feedback loop. The happier he felt the more he felt able to BE happy, a brief full throated laugh escaped at the thought of Mycroft with his underwear on display.

John recovers enough to go and grab a towel from the bathroom, bringing it back to the lounge he throws it into Sherlock's lap. "Dry your hair, I'll make tea." John says, still chuckling slightly.

"Thank you." Sherlock says, watching John disappear into the kitchen. Moments ago, in his downward spiral, he would have dismissed John giving him the towel and making tea as just the actions of a doctor looking after a patient, but now that the negativity is lifting he can see it for what it is, the act of someone who truly cares for him. He smiles and considers that maybe the world isn't so hateful, after all, he has a rather interesting experiment in progress on the kitchen table.

\---

Epilogue

"Sir, I have a report from Baker Street."

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow to show he is listening, even as he continues to read the thick file in front of him.

"It seems that as expected Dr Watson had held back on divulging the details of your encounter with him last week. He has just informed Sherlock. I viewed the footage myself, it seemed rather effective in heading off one of his downturns."

Mycroft thought for a second of the dark mood that he had saved his brother from, all for the price of a seam ripper and a little dignity. He turns to look at his assistant. "I knew that Dr Watson could be relied upon to act in Sherlock's best interests. So how goes the next operation?"

"The pipes above DI Lestrade's office have been rigged, ready when you say the word Sir."

Mycroft nods a dismissal and returns to his file. He knows he can not always help with his brother's depressive tendencies, but just occasionally it is too painful to watch him turn in on himself, it is always best to have a plan in place.


	2. Mycroft says the Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thematically this probably doesn't fit in with chapter one, but Hummingbird2 (one of my lovely commentators) asked what was going to happen with the pipes over Greg's office, so here you go Lovely x
> 
> \--------------------------------

Greg stomped into his office wearily. It had been a long day. He draped his jacket over the back of his chair, threw his files onto the desk with a thump, and then dropped heavily into the chair. 

He glared at the file that was causing him to stay in the office, by the time he had finished this paperwork it would barely be worth going home. Sighing he took a pen from his drawer and opened the file, and then screamed , a high pitched full volume scream borne of pure overwhelming shock.

The reason for the decidedly unmanly scream was that a deluge of freezing cold water was cascading from the ceiling. Greg was soaked to the skin instantly, his thin white cotton shirt clung to his body and his hair was plastered to his head.

The water continued to fall as he tried to rescue the files on his desk, gasping in the cold he grabbed them and felt an unpleasant squish from the sodden cardboard. Grimacing at the ruined files he hooked his soaked jacket off of the back of his chair and splashed his way out of the office through the puddles forming on the floor.

\--

Mycroft switches the recording off, this plan has worked out excellently, DI Lestrade could not possibly have reacted any better. Now it just remains to ensure that this footage reaches his brother at an opportune time. 

He switches the recording back on and rewinds to one particular section, considering how the DI really has a very good physique for his age and how beautifully his nipples show through the translucent clinging fabric. He puts a finger to his lips and decides that perhaps he will keep a copy, just for his own records.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to clarify that I am not suggesting that clinical depression can be solved as simply as this. 
> 
> This is just based on my own experience of having dark moods.


End file.
